"Ah! and the cypress wine! The cypress is the proper emblem of the grave."
"But this anon. I am superstitious; there are strange stories of his power and foresight,—remember the Sicilian quackery! But meanwhile the Pisani—"
"Your Excellency is infatuated. The actress has bewitched you."
"Mascari," said the Prince, with a haughty smile, "through these veins rolls the blood of the old Visconti,—of those who boasted that no woman ever escaped their lust, and no man their resentment. The crown of my fathers has shrunk into a gewgaw and a toy,—their ambition and their spirit are undecayed. My honor is now enlisted in this pursuit: Isabel must be mine."
"Another ambuscade?" said Mascari, inquiringly.
"Nay, why not enter the house itself? The situation is lonely, and the door is not made of iron."
Before Mascari could reply, the gentleman of the chamber announced the
Signor Zicci.
The Prince involuntarily laid his hand on the sword placed on the table; then, with a smile at his own impulse, rose, and met the foreigner at the threshold with all the profuse and respectful courtesy of Italian simulation.
"This is an honor highly prized," said the Prince; "I have long desired the friendship of one so distinguished—"
"And I have come to give you that friendship," replied Zicci, in a sweet but chilling voice. "To no man yet in Naples have I extended this hand: permit it, Prince, to grasp your own."